


Say You Won't Let Go

by JaneAire



Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Angst, Comfort, Connor's potty mouth, Cuddling, Depression, Homophobia, Kissing, M/M, male!reader, mentions of neglect and abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2017-09-15
Packaged: 2018-12-30 00:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12096681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneAire/pseuds/JaneAire
Summary: Connor takes you home for thanksgiving--the hitch is, he's still sort of closeted. He's not going to let that kind of thing stop him from loving you. Connor and Male reader.Requested from my tumblr.





	Say You Won't Let Go

“Connor?”

“Mm.” 

“Connor,” I called again. He brushed his fingers across my knuckles again, dangling between us on the leather carseat. He was staring ahead, so it was concerning to see him so absent. While driving. 

“What?” 

“The light’s green,” I told him in a weak voice, watching his dark eyebrows furrowed blankly before fumbling, hands grasping for the wheel and slamming on the break. His dark hair was a curtain between us, eclipsing most of his face from my view. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled heatedly under his breath, his hands tapping at the wheel anxiously. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.” 

I folded my hands in my lap, careful to stay calm. Connor’s paranoia could be contagious sometimes, and his anxiety was filling the car with fumes I didn’t have the capacity to escape. 

“I’m scared too, Connor,” I mumbled softly, watching his white knuckled grip clench and unclench on the steering wheel, licking his lips before glancing surprisingly out of the corner of his eyes at me. 

“Hey,” he whispered softly, voice hoarse, chancing to take his hand of the steering wheel to reach for me. His painted nails raked harshly against the fabric of my jeans, up and down my thigh in an attempt to soothe me–and, in a way, it helped because it distracted him from his inner monologue. “I’m not scared. If they,” he paused, taking in a heavy sigh and letting his eyebrows drop low over his eyes. “If they say anything, we’ll get up and go. Get a hotel for the next few days and then go back to school, alright?”

“Going home is making you nervous,” I said neutrally. “This was a mistake.” 

Connor’s hand wrapped vice like around my knee, shaking it a little too roughly. “This is _not_ a mistake. I’m not letting you go home to your shitty parents, alright? Besides,” he grumbled. “This is a decent test for my parents, too. If they’re asswipes, we go immediately.” 

“Okay.” 

My stomach twisted nervously as the main streets and shops gave way to country field and subdivisions, little white picket fences with dogs and rosebushes  I hadn’t grown up in a neighborhood quite like this, and yet it amazed me–suburbia, for all its obvious perks, could still contain dark secrets. 

Connor, subject A. 

He hadn’t been home in awhile–he and I had spent the summer together working on campus, sharing a dorm. I knew he was civil with his folks and all, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t positively green as we pulled into a perfectly cemented driveway, three nice cars already parked in an open garage. Connor shifted the car into park, turning off the engine, but instead of exiting let his eyes close and leaned against the steering wheel for just a moment. 

It was hard–I could see how hard it was. How uncomfortable he felt. 

I wasn’t sure if I’d made it better or worse. 

I wasn’t sure how he’d worded it to his mother on the phone when he’d asked if I could join the party for thanksgiving–I knew he’d told her I wasn’t in the best standing with my parents. I wasn’t sure if he’d asked if he could bring “a friend” over or “someone I’m seeing”. 

He hadn’t said boyfriend. They didn’t know. He wasn’t out. 

It was maybe four yards to the door–just a few steps, less than sixty seconds, and everything in Connor Murphy’s family dynamic would change. 

Watching Connor swallow, forehead pressed into his hands where he was folded in on himself in the driver’s seat, was almost heartbreaking. I didn’t know if I made it worse or better. I didn’t even know how he felt. 

I hadn’t been home since I graduated. 

I reached out, scratching lovingly against Connor’s back through the fabric of his hoodie, feeling his shoulders relax beneath my hands. 

“I guess this is me fucking up again,” he laughed mirthlessly. “Christ, they’re gonna have a field day.” 

“You can take me somewhere else,” I offered, my voice thick at the suggestion, praying he wouldn’t really do that, but understanding if it was what he needed. “You don’t have to come out–” 

Connor sprung off the steering wheel, spinning, eyes wide, pink lips partially parted, his bony hands twitching I’m his lap.

“You,” he choked, seeming to be at a loss for words. “I didn’t mean–you aren’t the mistake, sweetheart.” He reached forward, lithe fingers cradling across the back of my neck, his thumb tracing my jaw. “You–fuck, I love you.” 

Connor’s slate eyes were searching, and I saw all the manic fear in them before they shut so that he could surge across the car, sealing his soft lips to mine. 

It was almost comedic when he got like this–desperate, hungry, and nothing lustful about it. Connor was so uniquely physical and so poor with his words, this was the only way he knew to communicate that he loved me. 

And I loved it. And I loved him. 

There were a few knees to my ribs as he climbed across the median, fumbling to get into my lap, his little lithe body folding perfectly against mine, his hands still knotting into my hair. 

“Connor–” I tried to protest with a laugh, surprised when he simply swallowed the words and continued. 

“I love you,” he hissed again, wrapping both his arms around my neck, leaning back to glare determined at my collar bone. “I love you, please–” 

“I love you,” I assured, pulling him back to press his face into his neck. “I love you, sweetheart, but you have to calm down. You aren’t gonna be able to articulate to your parents if you’re this panicked. I can’t do it for you.” 

“Fuck,” he cried, voice thick, pressing my face closer to the juncture of his neck. His hair was down today, kissing my temple. “I lied. I’m fucking terrified.” 

“It’s okay,” I promised, scratching at his lower back soothingly. “I’m right here.” 

——

We didn’t bother to bring in our bags, not when there might be a chance that we might have to haul them back out in a quick fit, Connor swearing during it all. 

He couldn’t stop fidgeting–it had been awhile since I’d seen him like this. Yes, the Connor I had met nearly a year ago had been stoic, pensive, and reclusive–but he’d also had an air of newly acquired calm and confidence that had been difficult to resist. He had smiles that seemed like they costed him, but only after he gave them, and he, more often than not, gave them without thinking twice. 

Recovering, he told me, he was recovering. It was more than enough. 

He kept scratching behind is ear, frizzing the fawn tone hair there so that the curls ticked upward just a little higher than the rest, his mouth twitching as he clenched and unclenched his jaw in a way that would make for robotic kissing later. The way his hands shook, I was surprised he didn’t stick them in his pockets–he wiped them on his jeans enthusiastically, stepping into the foyer as his mother answered the door. 

The Murphy’s looked as perfect as the photos on Facebook had portrayed–I knew it was for my benefit. Cynthia Murphy was loud, and it was done in a way that her own face cringed with the overdone politeness of it all. She grinned at me so that the apples of her cheeks looked high crested like Connor’s when he smiled without thinking, his eyes crinkling at the corners, making his hollowed cheeks dimple. Her eyes were vaguely panicked, and I looked away, giving her the time to process what was clearly a misread signal from Connor. 

Larry Murphy shook my hand, much too roughly, making it obvious where Connor had acquired it, and smiled like I was the campaign aid to his greasy politician. It made me nervous, unsettled, and I watched Larry Murphy stuff his large hands into the pockets of his slacks. 

Zoe Murphy was lazing artistically against the leather couch in the living room, only slightly visible from the foyer. At her parent’s call, she didn’t move, but offered us a wave without looking up from the television. So Connor hadn’t been lying about their strained relationship. 

“It’s so good to meet you! Connor got us all excited over the phone,” Cynthia crooned, patting her husband on the shoulder, her eyes still panicked behind her painfully wide smile. Her lips cracked in the same way Connor’s did.  “Worried for nothing, I see. It’s always good to meet Connor’s friends.” 

I smiled, my face pained. 

He could lie. Right now. He glanced at me from the corner of his eye, and I knew he was thinking about it. Smile, pretend, _I really got you guys this time!_ Slap me on the back, call me bro, smile and nod when his father asked about the cute girls on campus. He could cut me down right here, and he knew it. 

Connor was smiling politely, his hands still twitching at his sides. He was painfully close to me, too close for them not to notice, our shoulders brushing. They were taking it in with darting eyes and slim pupils, eyes cutting between us, begging for an explanation. 

“What do you mean?” Connor asked in a strained voice, obviously attempting to be civil. The smile on his face, while trying, was a fraud. 

Cynthia had begun to wring her hands, licking her lips as if attempting to come up with something in a way that wouldn’t offend me. She laughed too loudly. 

“You just, you said over the phone you were bringing home someone you wanted us to meet,” she smiled apologetically in my direction. Behind the two of them, Zoe Murphy had rolled into a sitting position, her auburn eyebrow arched, her lipglossed mouth in a froze _oh_. 

“Yeah,” Connor said slowly, eyes glancing from me back to them in a _can you believe this?_ sort of way, clearly more for their benefit than mine. He wanted them to say it for him, but the wouldn’t. They weren’t the kind of people who were going to wish for this or be thrilled Connor was finally himself. 

He was trying to come out, and they were pressed so tightly against the closet door, Connor was going to need a fucking cannon to get himself out. 

Larry made a noise in the back of his throat, impatient, disguising it with an exasperated laugh. I watched Connor tense, his shoulders locking and his mouth falling open. Scared. 

“She just means,” Larry laughed awkwardly, making an aggressive eye contact with me in an attempt to demean Connor, “We thought Connor meant a girl. We thought he might be getting serious with someone.” 

_Boom_.

To his credit, Connor didn’t explode. He didn’t scream. He did it slowly, softly, without words, the same way the Connor I knew everything about and the Murphy’s had never met did everything. 

He just smiled–not forced, but serene and genuine, and glanced down to where his pale hand, freckled across the knuckles was bumping against mine, and laced out hands together.  I wasn’t looking at the Murphy’s, but I could hear their sharp intake of breath over the rapid pounding of my heart. 

Connor was smiling at me, the apples of his cheeks eclipsing his eyes that were watering with the uncertainty of the moment. 

And I was so _proud_. 

He chose me. 

He chose himself. 

“I am,” Connor said, his voice certain from where he smiled at me in awe and adoration. “Serious about someone. This is my boyfriend.” 

—-

“It could’ve gone worse.” 

Connor, laying facedown on his twin bed could’ve been slightly endearing, slightly adorable, if it hadn’t been for the face he was screaming into his pillow. 

“It could’ve gone a lot fucking better!” He screamed, leaning up to scratch at his face with his black chipped nails–a bad habit that had me lunging forward to take his wrists, replacing his hands onto my hips and sitting beside him, letting him fall face first into my chest with a _humph_. 

“They didn’t make us leave,” I reminded softly, combing a hand through his soft hair and kissing his temple. Connor just groaned against my chest. 

“My dad passed out,” Connor hissed against my chest. “Fucking went unconscious. Because I’m gay.”

“Again, not the worst reaction.” 

“Oh my God, dude, please let me be negative!” Connor grunted, pulling back, stuffing his hands into his hair, causing me to reach up again to remove them. 

“Stop that,” I mumbled. “Keep those on me.”

He frowned, but still reached forward tenderly to cup the back of my neck, eyes searching for something in my face. Leaning forward till he blurred, close enough to kiss, he pressed his lips to the corner of my mouth, tilting his forehead to rest against mine with closed eyes. 

“I worship you,” he whispered, sending a violent chill down my spine, my own hands reaching up to tangled in the fabric of his hoodie. “I’d do that again and again to be with you.” 

“Con,” I whispered, pouting my lips to beg for a kiss, sighing happily when he obliged me, nudging me backwards gingerly against his mattress which was struggling to hold two grown men. 

He was tender, loving as he pressed chaste kisses again and again to my lips, before sighing and laying his head against my chest, reaching up to run his thumb absently across my jaw. 

“Your sister seemed supportive.” 

“What part of _‘Holy shit, no way!’_ seemed supportive to you?” 

“She was smiling?” 

“Babe–” 

“I’m sorry,” I conceded, reaching up to again card my fingers through his hair. “It’s just…they didn’t throw you out, Con. They didn’t call us names. They didn’t burn your things. That’s a luxury I didn’t have when I came out to my folks.” 

He sighed, pressing his nose against my chest again, kissing over the fabric of my shirt with a pained expression. “I know, baby, and I’m so sorry. Just–I’m taking care of you from now on, alright? You don’t have to worry about that stupid shit anymore.” 

“I know sweetheart,” I sighed, leaning down to kiss him again, knotting my hands into his long hair and going deeper, feeling Connor’s long legs give way to straddle me, his own hands framing my face to keep me firmly in place. 

“I’ve got you,” he whispered against my lips, before diving back in with fervor, licking up into my mouth, pulling a small laugh from the both of us. 

“Con–” I warned. 

“I know,” he groaned, pressing his face into the side of my neck and stretching my shirt collar to reveal a stripe of skin, beginning to suck a vicious hickey there, earning a surprised yelp from me. 

“Connor, you can’t–” 

“Knock, knock!” 

We sprang apart, both of us scrubbing at our faces, attempting to control our breathing. Connor stared wordlessly at the still closed door for a long time, before his mother called his name again and it dawned on him that she was asking permission to enter his room. 

“Come in.” 

Cynthia smiled apologetically upon entering, balancing a tray in her hands and sitting it on Connor’s desk, still covered in papers, before seating herself in the desk chair. Connor shifted, obviously uncomfortable. 

“We haven’t touched your room,” she said softly, smiling a bit differently than she had downstairs. “Left it just the way you liked it.” 

“Thanks,” he said softly, picking at the duvet with his fingernails, before thinking better of it and reaching out to take my hand again. Solidarity. 

Cynthia Murphy smiled. 

“I brought you cookies–Connor doesn’t like pie, I’m not sure if he told you,” she said to me with a grin, extending a plate I took warily, thanking her warmly as I could. “I know a lot of people eat pie on Thanksgiving, but I’m honestly not even very good at making it–” 

“Mom,” Connor called desperately, looking at her with wild eyes. Scared.

“Your dad is just fine,” she promised, still smiling at him like he was the most important thing in the world. Connor’s expression told me he’d never seen it before. “And he’s gonna come around. He just needs a minute, is all.” 

Connor nodded, admitting it was reasonable, even if he didn’t like it. “You?” 

She smiled, and for the first time I noticed her eyes were wet. “You’ve found somebody, sweetheart. That’s the most important thing. Look how much you’ve grown–I’m so _proud_ of you, Connor.” 

I let them hug. I let them cry. I let Cynthia hug me, thank me, take my face in her hands and promise me that I had a home here as long as I loved her son. 

It was a lot. It was so much. 

And when it was over, it was Connor and I wrapped around each other in his twin bed, our faces desperately close and whispering softly to each other. 

“I think my mom wants me to propose.” 

“You sure your dad’s heart can take it?” 

“Haha, Prince Charming, you’re hilarious.” 

A beat of silence, so long that I thought he’d fallen asleep, before I felt his lips linger at my temple. “Thanks for loving me.” 

I tightened my grip on his sides, kissing his collar bone lightly. “Always, sweetheart.”


End file.
